


speak no evil, kiss with sin

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Slash, Rimming, Switching, they’re in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Five times Geralt drives Jaskier crazy with things in his mouth, and the one time he drives Jaskier crazy with his ass in his mouth.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 399





	speak no evil, kiss with sin

The heat is  _ sweltering _ , and Jaskier thinks he’s going to die.

Well, he’s not, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel like it. It never gets this hot in Velen, so it’s a shock to his system, but there was no preparing himself for the heat. His doublet’s, thankfully, not thick enough to be a bother, but he’s sure it’ll get too clammy for him soon, especially if Geralt doesn’t fucking  _ stop chewing at his lip. _

“I’m literally going to die.” He whispers melodramatically to himself, pulling at his doublet for what feels like the fifteenth time. Beside him, Geralt sighs, seemingly tired of Jaskier’s complaining.

“It’s only a little heat, you’ll be fine, stop whining.” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s thankful he’s talking because at least that means he’ll stop chewing so incessantly at his lip. Even from where he was standing, which was a far enough distance from the witcher, he can see the redness of his bottom lip, a stark shade against the rest of Geralt’s pale face.

“Whining?!” Jaskier exclaims indignantly, growing hotter by the second, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s the heat anymore. “It’s not like I asked to be so susceptible to the heat!” He says, brow furrowed as he moves to remove his doublet.  _ Fuck _ the heat,  _ fuck _ the doublet, and especially  _ fuck _ Geralt.

Geralt merely looks at him, and there’s a moment of self consciousness as he folds his doublet as neatly as he could on his arm. He looks at the witcher, eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

There’s a bit of silence between them, the kind that has something hanging in the air. Geralt’s eyes flick down before back at Jaskier’s, then he turns back to the road. “Hm.” He grunts out, returning to chewing at his lip, and Jaskier, if he might say so himself, honest to the gods, thinks he’s going to die.

  
  
  


The next occurrence is when they’re trudging through the woods, and they come to a stop to rest their legs. Roach is grazing the grass somewhere by the trees, and Jaskier is simply sitting down against a tree and plucking at his lute.

It’s simple, really. They always have breaks in between walking, since both Roach and Jaskier could use the breaks (the latter more than the former), and while Jaskier is quite sure that traveling all day can’t be too kind on the witcher, he knows that he fares far better than anyone else can.

Today’s… worse, however. Ever since Jaskier first saw him biting at his lip and chewing, he’s been unable to ignore it since. He realises quickly that the witcher doesn’t do it when he’s thinking or deciding on something; he just  _ does it _ . Despite being a man of few words, Jaskier picks up easily on his facial cues, specifically the furrow of his brow and the pursing of his lips when he’s lost in thought, both actions completely unrelated to his lip chewing. Because of this, every time Geralt has something in his mouth, he finds himself paying closer attention to the movements he makes.

Such as right now. Geralt, in what seems to be an act of relaxation, is plucking cherries like a wistful handmaiden, paying no attention to Jaskier. If there’s one thing the bard has grown pleasantly used to, it’s these moments where Geralt shows another act of softness to him that’s different to the outer layer that is the White Wolf; the moments where he gets to see another inner layer to this proverbial onion. This action, however, feels more… targeted. No one in their right mind eats berries so sensually and messily, especially not one of Geralt’s ilk, but everyday brings new surprises, he supposed.

He doesn’t say anything as he pretends he’s not watching Geralt pop in a cherry through slightly stained lips, and definitely doesn’t say anything when Geralt pushes them in with ungloved fingers. In the back of his mind, he wonders if  _ he’s _ the one with the oral fixation for always finding something arousing with the way Geralt moves his mouth, but when he accidentally locks eyes with the witcher for a second, who seems to find no problem with licking his fingers meters away from his traveling companion, he knows it’s not him.

  
  
  


In the time he’s been traveling with Geralt, it was quite rare that they parted from each other’s company.

Of course, they would separate every winter to spend the colder months in warmer, more familiar places, and Geralt would sometimes (rarely) go into more dangerous territory alone while Jaskier waited with Roach, but there was a difference in the way Geralt asks to be left alone this time. The man of very few words had, unsurprisingly, told him to just fuck off for a few minutes and, strangely enough, expected Jaskier to actually  _ follow through _ with his demand.

Unless it was intentional, which Jaskier is silently hoping is the case, because he feels like a pervert— which he is, to be fair— watching Geralt shove two fingers into his mouth to muffle his noises and slide his hand up and down his cock. He was quite sloppy with his movements, no real rhythm to his strokes, instead seemingly just chasing an orgasm. He feels an embarrassing wave of envy knowing that wasn’t  _ his _ hand on his cock and  _ his _ fingers in his mouth, but the guilt of trespassing on such a vulnerable moment for the witcher feels wrong to the bard, so he leaves the witcher alone and prays to all gods that hear that he can cum before Geralt decides to rejoin him.

When they’re both seated by the campfire later that night, Jaskier wonders if Geralt had known he was there. The shine in the witcher’s eyes has changed when they make eye contact, but the Jaskier blames that on the campfire’s glow. Embarrassingly (to Jaskier, at least— Geralt doesn’t seem all too bothered), they both reek of sex, that musk that fills the air post-coitus, but Geralt says nothing as he bites down on the rabbit haunch he roasted over the fire, so Jaskier, for once in his life, stays silent too.

  
  
  


Jaskier is, quite honestly,  _ sick and tired of himself _ .

The exasperation isn’t only directed to himself, however. He’s also sick and tired of a certain white haired witcher, with a mouth so deliciously sinful Jaskier’s certain he can compose many, many ballads about them. There’s absolutely no reason for the witcher to have lips so delectable that he’s fantasising like a needy whore just thinking about them, and there’s absolutely  _ no _ reason for Geralt to be so focused on putting things in his mouth.

An instance of this is right now. There are many fruits that are quite rare to find in the semi-uninhabitable wasteland that was Velen’s plains, and of that selection were bananas. When Jaskier saw them hanging from a tree, he nearly surprised Roach from how fast he whisked past the horse and it’s rider, plucking the fruits from their place. He had shown Geralt what he had with glee, exclaiming how it’s not often he gets to try the fruit without paying a single crown. They were quite ready for eating, holding not a tinge of green on the peel, and so Geralt had humoured Jaskier this one time and taken a banana from the bard.

Jaskier isn’t laughing anymore. There’s a trance in his gaze that he knows anyone in their right mind can see, yet he can’t find it in himself to stop. Not when Geralt’s eating the banana (though from Jaskier’s angle, he looks like he’s pleasuring it) in a way that has Jaskier quickly losing his appetite as something  _ else _ fills. Curse his mind for always finding something sexual about his traveling partner’s mouth anytime it’s used.

Geralt looks at him with smugness in the light twisting up of his lips, and he finds himself wondering if witchers can read minds. 

  
  
  


There’s not a lot of moments where Jaskier is uncertain if Geralt’s going to make it out alive, but this is  _ definitely _ one of those moments.

His hands itch with worry when he realises it’s been two hours since Geralt disappeared into the ruins, firmly ordering that Jaskier stay put where he is. It’s not common that Jaskier actually follows what Geralt tells him to do, especially if it means an adventure to miss out on, but he understood the danger of the monster they were hunting; a succubus, which Jaskier can’t say he’s ever heard before, but Geralt’s grim tone was enough indication of just how dangerous a monster it was.

At some point, he’s tried to distract himself by strumming his lute, walking around the entrance of the ruin, even playing with the various shrubbery and greenery around the area, but nothing settled his nerves. Something went wrong, or is going wrong, or will go wrong, and Jaskier has half a mind to run into the ruin and look for him, but he’s shaken from idle worrying when he hears thundering footsteps from inside the ruin.

“Geralt?” He calls out, heart racing faster at the possibility that this isn’t his witcher. The moonlight shines down on the entrance, and it allows him a clear view of Geralt, a blankness in his eyes as he lugs a succubus’ decapitated head around, still dripping with blood as he carries it by the horns. “Oh thank the gods it’s you, I was beginning to worry about you, you oaf!”

“Jaskier…” He mutters, eyes wide and delirious in a way Jaskier’s never seen before. He’s about to ask what’s wrong until Geralt turns away, huffing. “We need to go, it’s dangerous this late.” He grinds out, like he’s speaking through his teeth with great difficulty.

“A-are you sure? Pardon my words, but you don’t look too well, maybe we should-”

“Damn it, Jaskier!” He shouts, his voice carrying. Jaskier wrenches back the hand he put on Geralt’s shoulder like he’s been burned, and there’s a feral look to his eyes that reminds Jaskier of looking at a rabid dog. “I…” Geralt tries, but it’s as if his throat was being constricted. He hurries to unclip the waterskin strapped to his belt, uncorking it and drinking like he were dying of thirst.

“Geralt, what’s wrong?” Jaskier asks, gentler this time. The witcher, who always seemed to keep his cool after a fight, has a crazed look in his eyes and a wobble in the way he walks, the clearest signs to Jaskier that something had gone  _ terribly _ wrong in there.

“I… can’t,” Geralt mumbles, looking at Jaskier, but he feels like the words aren’t directed at him. Geralt shakes his head, like a drunken man trying to shake himself from intoxication. “Cursed— the succubus,” He explains, but even his words are slurred together. “It cursed me, just need…”

Concernedly, Jaskier tries to stop the witcher from falling face first into the dirt, doing his best to hold him upright. He’s inhumanly warm, which is even more of a surprise to the bard, considering that witchers’ skin are as cold as ice. “W-what is it, what do you need, Geralt?” He asks, a panic in his tone. He hasn’t seen him like this ever before, never witnessed him stumble and mumble, hardly able to form coherent sentences.

The witcher looks at him, and Jaskier can feel more than see the turmoil in him. There’s a look in his eyes that, embarrassingly, sends a jolt through Jaskier’s spine, and the heat of his gaze goes straight to his cock. He tries not to pay any attention to his arousal, but then Geralt is biting his lip again, and the control in him slips ever so slightly.

Jaskier doesn’t think he’s been this serious in his life. “What do you need, Geralt?” He asks again, swallowing dryly. The witcher breathes in, which seems to do him no favours as he breathes out just as quickly afterwards, head dropping forward. “Tell me.” Jaskier demands with no question, and he knows they would probably never speak about this ever again after the matter is concluded, but consequence damn itself, his best friend is  _ suffering _ and that’s more than enough to make Jaskier do anything for him.

“I need…” He trails off, breathing in more like there was a scent of freshly baked bread in the air. Jaskier doesn’t have to look down to see the line of Geralt’s hard cock against strained pants, and fuck if it doesn’t send a twisted concoction of guilt and arousal through him. This is his  _ friend _ , and here he is taking advantage of him at his weakest. But what is he to do? Let him wander off in search of a quick fuck, probably get killed in his inebriated state? Let him loose in the brothel in the town nearby, subject a poor whore to a crazed witcher’s callousness? Worse, just  _ leave him _ in this state, pretend he isn’t sniffing Jaskier and getting harder from it?

Jaskier feels like he’s arguing with himself, but the call to quick action grows stronger when Geralt’s knees buckle under him as the man groans in what seems to be a dangerous mixture of pain and pleasure. He’s much heavier than what Jaskier can carry, but he knows they have to take care of this as soon as possible. He practically drags Geralt to the grass close to the ruins, and he’s muttering nonsensically until he starts nuzzling his nose against Jaskier’s neck, kissing hungrily against it, then biting and sucking. In the back of his mind, Jaskier thinks there are worse fates at the hands of a witcher who isn’t of sound mind.

“I’m going to do something that I really hope I don’t regret when this passes,” He says to no one in particular, putting all of his focus on just helping Geralt out of the various parts of his needlessly complex armour. He sets them aside and opens Geralt’s tunic to let the man feel more of the cool spring air, and tries not to think about what would happen afterwards.

Besides, Geralt would do the same for him if he were in such a position to be so indisposed, right? But when he lets Geralt lie on the ground, unhooks his trousers, and takes his red, hard cock into his own hand, all while the witcher replaces licking and sucking Jaskier’s neck with sucking on his fingers, he thinks,  _ Geralt would never go this far for me _ , so he wonders why he hasn’t stopped.

Jaskier does his best to keep his cool and his cock in his trousers as he strokes another man’s; it’s not his first time doing this for a man, but he’s never pleasured a man while said man sucked on his fingers like sweet nectar dripped from them. He notices that Geralt’s more expressive in this state, with moans and groans of pleasure slipping out, muffled by the fingers in his mouth.

When Geralt cums, he bucks up into Jaskier’s hand and moans a muffled version of the bard’s name, and  _ fuck _ if that doesn’t do things to him. The witcher seems to calm down after that, so Jaskier generously wipes him down with a cloth from his bag, and redresses the witcher as best he can. It’s particularly hard to clean the cum staining Geralt’s shirt, but he imagines the armour will hide most of the stain. He’s thankful there’s a lake nearby, which he deems is the perfect place to finally fucking _ touch his own cock _ .

If Geralt wakes up the next day and feels fucked out or, worse, violated, he doesn’t show it at all. It’s almost like nothing happened, in fact, and Jaskier is both welcoming to it and disappointed. But just as easily as they came to the succubus’ lair, they leave.

  
  
  


It’s finally when they’re in a tavern that Jaskier just  _ snaps _ .

By all means, he’s held out long enough. It feels like it’s been at least six months since the succubus incident, and they’ve both flawlessly avoided talking about the topic, but there’s a sense of trust between them that’s built faster in those six months than the whole time they’ve been traveling together. Geralt’s less prickly, the first thing that Jaskier noticed; he’s more willing to have Jaskier in his business, whereas previously he would’ve batted the bard away from peering into whatever he was looking at or focusing on. He’s more open too, letting Jaskier ask him questions about whatever, whenever, and  _ actually answers _ in non-monosyllabic responses.

What boggles Jaskier most, really floors him, is that Geralt is more… personal. His words seem to fall short at times, so he conveys what he wants in a more active way. Jaskier never imagined he would see Geralt gesticulate while describing a portion of a story that Jaskier barely had to ask him to tell him, but he has. It’s like a wall had been torn down, like the onion was peeled even more to get to the core of Geralt’s character, but the onion comparison doesn’t feel right in this situation anymore— no, Geralt’s more than the onion he first compared him to all those years back in Posada when they first met.

Which brings him back to where they are currently, in a tavern, drinking ale with coin that Geralt earned from slaying an alp that preyed on the town they stopped by. Their knees keep knocking into each other under the table, and every now and then Geralt’s hands will land too close to Jaskier’s, and Geralt keeps maintaining eye contact every time he drinks from his mug, subjecting the bard to having to ignore the way his adam’s apple bobs, the way he licks his lips before he takes a sip, the way he wipes his lips with a thumb, all while  _ looking at him _ .

Jaskier clears his throat when their conversation comes to a comfortable silence, but whatever he’s feeling right now is nowhere near comfortable. “Well, I think I’ll retire for tonight,” He says, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. Geralt raises a curious brow, because Jaskier  _ never _ retires earlier than him, but he waves him off. “The… road has made me quite, er, weary. If we’re to set out tomorrow, we should be well rested!” He says, already getting up from his seat before Geralt can say anything else. “You should, um, stay out a little more! Relish in your victory, my friend!”

His legs bring him to their shared room quickly, and he’s hoping to all hell that the witcher takes his advice and just stays out to give him the privacy he so desperately needs. When he shuts the door, he sighs in relief, and looks down at the strain in the front of his trousers as he leans against the door. Maybe he  _ was _ right; he was the one who had some sort of kink for Geralt’s mouth, something he’s sure of as he palms himself through his trousers and hides a whimper with his free hand.

Gods, the things he imagines of Geralt. There’s an underlying twinge of guilt in the bard for feeling this way for Geralt, his closest friend, who only recently opened up to him, but it’s out of his mind the second he reaches into his trousers and finally grasps his cock.

He’s jacked off before, yes, but somehow it feels always feels more intense when the focus of his sexual daydreaming is Geralt. There are certainly more comfortable positions than fucking his fist against a door, but he’s not going to be the one to soil the sheets they plan to share later on tonight. His hand is hardly enough for him, but it’s better than nothing, and at this point he’s too far gone to stop every noise that comes out of his mouth. His strokes are erratic, too slow sometimes, too fast sometimes, never enough, but he feels the curl in the pit of his stomach and  _ gods, he’s really going to cum to the idea of his friend _ .

“Jaskier?” He hears outside of the door, and fuck fuck  _ fuck, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go _ . He tries to stay quiet, but his breathing is too loud and he can’t hide that groan he grinds out at having to stop his hand’s movements.

“I’m… I’m quite occupied right now, Geralt! It would be greatly appreciated if you—”

“I’m well aware. Let me in.”

Jaskier blinks, wondering if he had heard that right. He sighs in defeat, tucking himself back into his pants bitterly as he wrenches the door open. Geralt’s looking at him with a smug look on his face, eyes trailing down lower, and Jaskier’s thinks he wants to slink into a hole and die.

Then Geralt’s through the door, shutting it behind him as he catches Jaskier in a kiss, and all of the thoughts in the bard’s head draw to a halt. It’s soft and gentle, but it’s desperate in a way that has Jaskier moaning into it, drawing closer to Geralt like they’re too far apart until they slot against each other almost perfectly. This feels  _ right _ , and yet, he can’t stop himself from asking; “How long?”

“How long what?” Geralt asks, kissing along the line of his jaw. Jaskier, in turn, bares his neck more and runs his hand through the witcher’s hair, the position startlingly reminiscent of that night outside of the succubus’ lair.

“How long have you known?” Jaskier replies, breathing in sharply when Geralt presses pointed canines against his neck. He pulls a little harder on the white strands in his hand, taking initiative to move them to the double bed in the middle of the room.

“...Long enough,” Geralt mutters after a moment, and follows him to the bed. “Clothes, come on,” He coaxes when they get to the bed, starting to remove the pieces of armour still on his body, before moving on to his undergarments. Jaskier remembers he should do the same, which isn’t so difficult when he’s not dressed up in a doublet of some sorts and only in his casuals.

When both of them are naked as the day they were born, Geralt’s moving to down Jaskier, until the bard can only see him peeking from where his cock was obscenely lying against his belly. “Tell me if it’s too much.” Geralt instructs him, and before he can ask for what, he feels a tongue against his entrance.

“Fuck!” Jaskier exclaims, legs unable to stop from spreading apart. Geralt stops to look up at him, but he merely has to look him in the eye. “Do… do that again.” He rasps, almost unbearably hard. His cock twitches in interest when Geralt grins at him and licks a stripe against his hole, pushing his tongue into the bard’s hole and holding apart his thighs.

It almost gets too much for Jaskier that he thinks he can almost feel the orgasm ready to punch out of him. “Stop, stop,” He says, and hates how fucked out he sounded so soon. Geralt gets up, confused but mostly worried, until Jaskier’s drawing him in with a kiss, and  _ fuck _ if it doesn’t get him a little harder tasting himself on Geralt’s tongue. “Don’t want this to end so soon,” He explains hurriedly, if only to get back to kissing the man he’s wanted since— well, the start.

“How do you want me?” Geralt asks, his voice a deep rumble against Jaskier’s lips. He thinks he might die if his cock isn’t in Geralt’s ass at some point, whether now or later.

“On your back,” He whispers, and moves to retrieve the oil in the dresser next to the bed. Geralt seems to get the idea and spreads his thighs a little more, doing wonders to Jaskier’s heart when he realises this is probably the most trust he’s shown to him.

Slicking his fingers up, he moves to kiss Geralt, and presses an oiled finger into the witcher’s puckered hole. There’s a bit back moan in Geralt’s throat, and Jaskier stops kissing him in favour of kissing at his neck and jaw. “Don’t hold back, my witcher,” He whispers, and the words come back to his head from how Geralt shudders at his words. He slips another finger in, just as he kisses at Geralt’s chest. “Let the inn hear you; the mighty witcher, the legendary White Wolf,” He continues, spreading his fingers apart to prep him as was necessary if he was going to bury his cock in that tight heat. “Moaning and whining at the behest of a bard.”

Now it’s his turn to be smug when Geralt  _ actually _ whimpers at that. Who would’ve known the great slayer of monsters could be so swayed by his own words? He slides a third finger in, and tries to map out where Geralt’s spot is, only encountering little difficulty until he curls his fingers inward, and elicits a long moan from the witcher alongside a few choice profanities.

“Jaskier, please,” Geralt rushes out, a whine in his throat, “Please just  _ fuck me _ .”

Every part of Jaskier that wants to draw this out disappears instantly.  _ Next time _ , he thinks as he covers his neglected cock in the oil. It’s not cold, but it’s not exactly warm either, so before long, he’s lining his cockhead to Geralt’s hole, and pushes in with a slow but sure thrust. Both of the men groan, Jaskier gripping Geralt’s thighs hard enough to bruise any normal man, and Jaskier kisses his calf as he buries himself to the hilt. Beneath him, Geralt’s a panting mess, any words he had to say punched out of him at the sweet pain of just  _ fullness _ from the first slide.

“You can— move,” Geralt says, but it comes out a needy plea. Not one to deny his lover what he wants, Jaskier pulls back, snapping back with a particularly hard thrust that has Geralt moaning his name among a multitude of expletives. Jaskier builds a pace, a balance of fast and thorough, as he changes the angle of his thrusts to hit Geralt’s spot. After a few tries and a bit of readjusting, he thrusts in only to be rewarded by Geralt’s back arching off of the bed, walls clenching on Jaskier’s cock. “Ah, fuck, Jaskier!” He exclaims, and his typical cold rasp is nowhere to be found, replaced with an octave higher than his normal tone, and Jaskier finds himself chasing after the same sweet sounds spilling out of Geralt’s lips, doing his best to thrust in and out at that exact spot.

For all his loudness, Geralt doesn’t vocally announce that he’s cumming, but Jaskier feels it before he sees it; how Geralt tightens up and spasms around his cock, how his back practically shoots up off the bed like it burned him, how he throws his head back and is just  _ so vulnerable  _ in Jaskier’s hands. It’s not long after that Jaskier releases inside of Geralt, moaning his name like a prayer, unable to hold on for much longer when he sees him writhe and twitch as he comes down from his climax.

They’re both panting as Jaskier slides out of Geralt and plops down next to him, landing on the witcher’s outstretched bicep. He snakes his hand to grasp the one by his shoulder, finding comfort in just holding it. In the back of his mind, he thinks that this is the best sex he’s ever had.

“That was… wow,” He says, still catching his breath. Beside him, Geralt huffs in agreement, sidling up closer to Jaskier. “I never would’ve thought you’d like how I talked.” He admits, and sure his finger was in the man’s ass at the time, but he knows it wasn’t all just his finger.

“I would like you to not talk right now.” Geralt mutters, but there’s no heart in it. He looks down at his chest, and Jaskier remembers himself, gets up from where he was lying down, and wets a clean rag by the basin across the room. He comes back and sits on the bed, wiping the cum off of Geralt’s abs while looking him in those golden eyes he’s found himself in love with.

A million thoughts fly by, but he settles for the strongest one. “I love you,” He says, and it’s barely above a whisper, like a secret he’s worried to share, “I have for awhile now.”

Geralt hums, and there’s something so undeniably soft in his eyes. “I have too.” And it’s not a direct return of the words, but Jaskier knows what matters is that he  _ means  _ it. So he tosses the rag aside when he’s finished cleaning the both of them up, lies down, entangles their legs, and sidles up against his witcher, fitting perfectly.

And if Geralt wakes up the next day, and wakes Jaskier with a wet finger in his ass and a mouth whispering  _ ‘good morning’ _ against his ear, he thinks Geralt’s expressive enough to prove he was telling the truth.


End file.
